


Let the hunt begin

by Anonymous



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Asphyxiation, Breathplay, Choking, Elf hunting, M/M, Predator/Prey, Thingol would not approve, outdoors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 22:18:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5515343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>Beleg and Túrin enjoy a special sort of game in the forest.</b>
</p><p>A lovely Anon on tumblr requested a combination of Predatory/Prey, Hunting and Barely Legal</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let the hunt begin

**Author's Note:**

> Well .. lovely anon who sent in this prompt. Your prompt (69,7) implies that you can be rather found on the kinky side of life, so have a kinky fill for this one. As we do not know much about any laws of Thingol's court I had to take certain liberties, but I think Thingol agrees with me that it is barely legal to choke his marchwarden to unconsciousness.

**Let the hunt begin  
**

*****

 

When he sets out from Menegroth all around him is quiet as the first rays of the sun just begin to pierce through the nightly sky, announcing the new day.

 _'When the sand watch runs out, I will come for you.’_ The words ring in his ears and involuntarily Beleg smiles.

The expansive forest seems to stretch endlessly before him, filling the land with a vastness of green. Regardless of its beauty, he has no time to admire the countless flowers or chirping birds in the highest branches of the trees, he has no time to marvel as the sky turns into a firework of color above him – he has to get away.

_‘Be wary.’_

Upon realization that there is no turning back, a violent shiver runs down his spine – is it fear or anticipation Beleg does not exactly know and it matters not. Soundlessly he disappears in the dense shrubs, alarming birds and rabbits alike.

Taking his duty as one of Doriath’s marchwardens into account he is familiar with the woods as only a few others, but over the years his friend has learned many things, tracking down beasts and elves in king Thingol’s forest among them.

It is the thrill of the chase that drives him further into the sacred woods, that makes his heart-beat flutter, overpowered only by the thrill of what depraved idea forms in his friend’s mind whilst he hunts him.

 

*

Túrin stands at the edge of the forest, surveying it with narrowed eyes. His breathing is even; yet he already knows it will not remain like this for long.

“Let the hunt begin,” he says to himself and for the first time he feels his heartbeat quicken as he slips into the dimness under the dense leaf-canopy.

Fallen leaves rustle beneath his feet, branches tear when they stick into his way.

Silently he halts every now and then to listen to the forest, to regard the traces the elf might have left behind. His senses are sharp, he knows, they always are; nevertheless it will not be easy to find him as it is difficult to track any elf, and the one he is searching for is a master at the game they are playing.

Birds startle out of their hides when he rushes past them, alarmed, chirping nervously.

Excitement thrums in his ears, the sounds and smells of the forest, earthy and heavy, filling his nostrils, mingling with the scent of the elf that still adorns his skin. He imagines how he will catch his prey after long hours, what he will do with him afterwards; it is the most powerful aphrodisiac of all.

For how long he has searched already, Túrin does not know, but exhaustion – one of the disadvantages that comes with his human blood – demands its toll; he grows tired, and weary and briefly he stops to gather his thoughts.

It is in this moment that he sees something from the corner of his eyes, as if in the far distance a figure hushes from tree to tree, lithe and slender body, an elf for certain and his body tenses in response. Today’s hunt is a tedious affair, for many hours already he roams the forest without finding a treacherous trace of the one he is searching for; no footprints, silvery lock, or anything else that would give him away. Over the years he has learned to interpret but the smallest signs, to read the forest itself; distinguish the smell of rabbit, weasel, and other inhabitants of the forest, even of elves. Additionally, with Beleg’s help, he has learned to read the elves themselves, a fascinating lesson, and that is exactly what he does now.

_‘What will he do? Where will he go next?’_

Whilst men, when cornered, usually try to hide themselves, the elves do the exact opposite he has learned – gathering where neither orc nor men would ever look; along a stream, in the branches high above the ground, in a clearing rather openly instead of hiding.

Sharply he inhales and gazes into the distance with narrowed eyes before he resumes to track down the elf; with ease he hurries along the mossy ground into the direction where he has last seen the figure of which he assumes it is his friend. His pulse quickens as he does so, anticipation threatening to overwhelm him.

Now the time has come to claim what is rightfully his, and indeed only shortly after his gaze falls onto the silver haired elf.

Soundlessly he sneaks up behind him.

 

*

With ease Túrin leaps forward, knife in his hand to assault him whilst he kneels at the stream to appease his thirst.

 _‘You fool,’_ Beleg muses, resisting the urge to laugh out loud, _‘if you truly think I did not hear you already.’_

Of course he had, he was merely tired of being chased when he rested at the stream – and, admittedly, depravedly wanton.

“What do we have here?” Túrin whispers in a low and dangerous voice, one arm encircling the slim waist of the elf whilst the other is busy to hold the knife against his throat, “A marchwarden, caught off his guard?” [1]

The smell of sweat and arousal tickles Beleg’s nose, Túrin’s arms slightly trembling from exhaustion; hidden from the man’s eyes he smiles. This is the reason why he pretended not to hear him.

To play along, Beleg draws in a deep breath and tries to shift his position with a small struggle but he is not allowed to, his friend’s arm holding him firmly in place. “Rise,” with indifference Túrin demands, but the hoarse voice, the rattling of his breath gives him away rather easily.

Beleg obliges and allows Túrin to turn him around until their gazes meet. Devotion, excitement, anticipation, sexual hunger – all of these flicker and mingle in Túrin’s dark eyes, Beleg notices, much to his own delight.

He does not feel much different.

The moment he parts his lips to answer the previous question, he feels the edge of the blade against his throat. The pressure is not strong enough to draw blood yet, but strong enough to tell him that Túrin means what he is doing, a knowledge that makes the tiny hairs of his neck to stand on edge. Túrin’s eyes glitter dangerously in the dim light of the forest, beautifully so. “Keep your mouth shut, elf,” a chiding voice says, and so he does, offering an indulgent smile instead.

The power in Túrin’s voice. The authority it holds. The subtle threat in it and the not-so-subtle notes of arousal which are carried along. Beleg feels his skin shiver from the words alone – it is as if they hold a filthy promise.

Well .. he will find out soon enough, that much is certain.

Where he is graceful, long silver hair, all slender with impossibly long limbs, Túrin is quite the opposite: dark hair, suntanned skin, and broad shoulders. Before Beleg can spin his thoughts any further Túrin uses exactly this for his advantage now. Rather helplessly he finds himself roughly pinned against the nearest tree with Túrin shoving his legs apart. With narrowed eyes and an almost malicious smirk he regards him: “Now marchwarden, what is this all about?” he inquires as he settles between Beleg’s parted legs. He remains quiet on the matter and merely smirks, knowing full well that exactly such behavior will set ablaze something within his friend. He is right of course. The knife Túrin still holds in his large hand presses against his throat anew, and momentarily Beleg’s eyes drift close.

It is odd, Beleg thinks, as – despite of the difference of their races –so perfectly they fit together, as if their bodies are designed for each other. Beleg focuses on the strong beat of Túrin’s heart against his chest, the press of a treacherous hardness against his loins.

It is clear to where this leads and excitement coils in his innards.

They are not far from Menegroth and this part of the forest is often frequented by the wardens of King Thingol’s realm, Beleg knows well – the chances that they get caught are high. Sexual encounters are a private affair, intimate, supposed to be lovely, warm and cozy, so Beleg has learned – with Túrin it is none of these things. Violent, rough, and so _utmost_ _filthy_ instead, efficient and from time to time barely legal. Exactly this it is what thrills him so, as it thrills him all the more that somebody might interrupt their filthy game.

It is not so that Túrin is unable to be affectionate, indeed he always showers him with lazy kisses and gentle touches - afterwards. Now, with generous amounts of adrenaline rushing through his veins of course he isn’t, eyes gleaming predatory. He looks at him like a hunter who regards his prey, but steadfast Beleg holds his gaze.

“So?” Túrin breathes against his heated skin and runs a reassuring hand through Beleg’s hair, muttering something else under his breath that he fails to comprehend and therefore remains quiet. His heart beats fast and even though he knows that Túrin will not harm him, there is nothing he can do to calm down. _‘He is your friend,’_ he keeps telling himself, _‘he won’t harm you,’_ – no of course he would not, at least not severely, but fear overpowers his logic, all the more when the blade cuts through his unmarred skin. _‘But what if not?’_ a voice in his head says, and even if those thoughts are ridiculous in itself, a certain unease persisted.

The wash of guilt he sees in Túrin’s eyes is expected, welcomed; both are equally aware of the fact how wrong this is, but they do not care.

With indifference the knife falls unto the mossy ground and not a moment later, Túrin is upon him, mouthing along his neck, allowing his teeth to scrape roughly along the sensitive skin. With strange fascination he licks away the remains of blood the knife has left behind, and in response, a shudder shakes Beleg’s body and a slight moan escapes his lips. Where a moment ago Túrin’s lips have lingered now deftly fingers are wound around his neck, without much pressure yet.

It is not the gesture that makes him tremble, but the fury in Túrin’s eyes, the undisguised hunger that shines in them.

 _‘Fuck me already,’_ he is tempted to say, but he does not, curious what wicked fantasies have formed in Túrin’s mind.

Beleg doesn’t know from where the hand in his breeches comes from. He doesn’t care as long as the divine touch persisted, gripping, groping and stroking him. His hips start to buck against Túrin’s hand in desperation, as much as his position allowed it as pinned against the tree he still finds himself. His back and shoulders hurt already from the position he is caught in but soon pain his drowned by something far greater, something maddening. When he struggles slightly against the hold, Túrin applies more pressure against his throat and as much as he wishes to hiss something, he cannot as he is occupied with the attempt to breathe.

A searing flame burns his innards when lips brush against his chest, when Túrin bites the skin just above the collarbone as he has done so often before, hard enough to leave a bruise and perhaps to draw blood. For seconds pain numbs Beleg’s senses and at first he doesn’t notice that the grip against his throat tightens.

When he does, his mouth goes dry. They have tried and done many things already, but never this.

Again, Túrin smirks at him like a wolf would at its prey, taking great delight in his futile struggle.

Simultaneously, he presses his fingers harder against his throat, hard enough for Beleg to see stars. He feels his eyes roll in their sockets and when he realizes, the hand is gone already. Beleg gasps and coughs, struggling to catch his breath but he barely can as Túrin repeats his action, and this time he chokes him longer.

In response, Beleg’s eyes grow wide in horror as faint voices already echo in his mind and with futile desperation he tries to slap Túrin’s hand away from his throat, fingernails scratching along his wrist. Unimpressed he regards him then with tilted head, a knowing smirk playing upon his lips as he gives Beleg’s cock a few languid strokes in reassurance. However, he does not let go of his throat, not yet at least and at the edge of consciousness Beleg finds himself crawling. When his body grows weak, Túrin withdraws his hand again, leaving him spluttering and gasping for air.

The hand caught in his breeches however remains. “Bastard,” he coughs.

“Oh my,” a voice far away seems to comment, placing the words right into Beleg’s mind, “lovely you are indeed.” Rough the voice his, filthy and depraved as anything can ever be, and he does not know what is real and what is not anymore, as the dance of phosphenes still persisted.

Túrin chokes him again with all the strength he can muster and simultaneously he kisses him with such an intensity that his world goes blank for seconds, stars exploding behind his now closed eyes. In response, Beleg trashes and quivers but the body that grinds against him stops every movement he is able to conduct, Túrin’s large hand still trapped between them. He floats in realms unknown, in a world that is not theirs, his mind soaring high above the mossy ground as if he watches the scene unfold itself as an outside spectator.

And then a vast blackness swallows him.

The first thing Beleg remembers when his eyes snap open is how his entire body shakes against Túrin so heavily that the man struggles to keep him in place, eyes dark and wide with giddy need. Not a second later he comes in Túrin’s hand, the string of moans that spill across his parted lips choked off by stuttering breaths and not much later by Túrin’s mouth as he kisses him with such a demanding force that he nearly loses consciousness again. It is as if his body dissolves into the reminiscence of eternity, a searing flame consuming him until nothing of him is left on this earth.

When his legs refuse to support his weight it is Túrin’s strong arms that hinder him from falling, that catch him and lay him down onto the ground, still gasping and panting – it is as if his climax has never been more intense and forever it takes until he recovers.

*

They stay, curled up against each other in the dark until the last warmth bleeds from the fire Túrin has set up.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written this pairing before but admittedly I have quite enjoyed to write them :D
> 
>  **[Disclaimer]** \- The Elf and Man are (unfortunately) not mine. They belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Estate – I just like to explore their lives a little further. No money is made from this story.


End file.
